Things That Never Happened
by SJlikeslists
Summary: This is a collection of one shots for which I can offer no explanation. (periodic additions may occur)
1. How Mitch Never Met Heather

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

"Come in!" The voice hidden behind the door adorned with a nameplate that read Rev. H. D. Lisinski called in answer to her knock.

Heather pushed it open and smiled at the pile of papers her father's desk was hidden under. "I'll never understand how you find anything in that," she commented as she did on most occasions when she stopped by his office.

"I make do, sweetie," he smiled back. "Are you headed out?"

"Yeah," she replied. "It's a long drive, and I want to stop by the Jenkins' on way out of town."

"You didn't have to come home for spring break, but I appreciate that you did," he told her standing to give her a kiss on the forehead.

"Where else would I go?"

"Probably nowhere that I would actually want to know about. Drive carefully," he commanded.

"I always do," she assured him.

"Tell Martha hello for me, and if you think about it, tell Jenna that her new books for her Sunday School class came in today."

"I'll tell her," she promised reaching out a hand to catch a folder that was sliding off the edge as her father brushed by it to sit back down.

"Nice save," he complimented.

She perused the papers as she straightened them back into the folder. "Is this the one that happened over by Jericho? The one where that boy was killed?" She asked tapping the newspaper clipping about a trial that was stapled to the front with her finger as she handed the folder over.

"Yes, sad business," he answered as he accepted it.

"Your next letter writing campaign?" She inquired. He nodded his head. "Do you think any of them will write back?"

"I never know until I try," he grinned up at her. "That's enough about what I'm up to; we've had all week for that. You've got a lot of driving to do, and I know you won't get away from Jenna nearly as quickly as you think you will. You're going to end up driving in the dark."

"Bye," she offered leaning over to kiss him on the top of the head in turn. "I love you."

"I love you, baby girl."

_A Little More Than One Year Later_

"We didn't want to rush you, honey. You don't need to do this now," her father's secretary meant well with her soft, soothing voice and her attempts to convince her to take more time before she tackled this project. The problem was that Heather needed to be doing something and sorting through the items from her father's office was the something that she had determined was next on her list. She needed to be busy, and she could only spend so much time hunkered down in the Jenkins' garage tinkering on Charlotte until people came by looking for her to express their condolences. If she were doing something a little more serious (like sorting through her father's things), then she wouldn't have to feel guilty if she let Mrs. Jenkins and Jenna tell people that she was in the middle of something and couldn't see them.

Jenna and her grandmother had insisted that she stay with them for the summer before she went back to finish her final year of college, and she wasn't sorry that she had accepted (despite the steady stream of visitors that came with the package). Everything from the house was in storage, and she needed to go through it and whittle down what she was keeping. One of the perils of growing up in a parsonage was that the house went with the job, and she just didn't have a place to keep everything until she felt more up to those kinds of decisions. Likewise, the contents of her father's office were in boxes that the church was graciously keeping for her, but she couldn't take advantage of that forever.

Supposedly everything important to ongoing projects had already been taken out, but she knew her father and his filing system (or lack thereof). If there was something that whoever had done the sorting (likely Mrs. Hicks) had missed, then it might as well get found now.

Her instincts that something would have been overlooked proved correct when she found the file of letters from a prison inmate. She remembered the newspaper clipping that was stapled to the front. One of them had written her father back. It was a private ministry of his - his prison letters. Mrs. Hicks had assured her that all of his correspondents had been informed, but this one had gotten missed somehow. She wasn't sure why she did it. She had been raised to believe that reading other people's letters was a violation of her privacy, but she found herself wanting to remember how good her father had been at people. She had not inherited that particular skill.

The man who had written back to her father had done so antagonistically at first, but the questions had poured out just the same. She wished that she could read her father's replies that had turned the sullen, almost taunting writer of that first letter into the calmer, still questioning, but obviously less angry (apparent even on paper) writer of the later ones. She hoped that the man hadn't thought that her father had abandoned him. It had been six weeks, and (judging from the dates on the letters) theirs had been an almost weekly exchange. She decided that she didn't need to hand this folder over to Mrs. Hicks. She would write the explanation letter herself.

_Dear Mr. Cafferty,_

_I am writing to inform you that my father . . ._

She was kind of shocked when she got the reply. She hadn't expected that, and she would have thought (if she had thought of such a thing) that if she did get one, it would have been a mere thank you for letting me know type of a thing. Instead, she got a sincere letter telling her that he was sorry to hear about her father and how much he appreciated her taking the time to make sure he didn't think that he had been forgotten. Then, he started talking about her dad and how much his letters had meant to him. He wanted her to know just how special her dad had been. She knew that, but it was always nice (especially in this context) to hear that someone else knew that as well. Before she even realized what she was doing, she found herself starting a letter back.

_Dear Mr. Cafferty,_

_I know I'm not my father, and I couldn't hope to be as . . ._

The letters kept coming and going even after she went back to school. He was fascinated (or claimed to be) by her stories about college, and they exchanged tips about fixing cars in between the asking of questions of the kind that he used to write to her dad. She knew she wasn't doing nearly as good of a job with them as he would have done, but she did her best. Sometimes, they ended up trying to figure out the answers together.

_Dear Mitch,_

_You'll never guess where I just got offered a teaching position._

_Dear Heather,_

_Are you serious?_

_Dear Mitch,_

_I think I'm going to like it here. I wasn't so sure about the whole small town thing, but . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I spent my entire life dreaming of getting out of Jericho. This wasn't really what . . ._

_Dear Mitch,_

_I survived my first week of teaching with most of my hair still attached to my head. There's something about knowing that you're all on your own with no one to turn to in that classroom . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I would tell you that you get the same sort of feeling the first time you get sent out on your first solo job, but you probably don't want to hear it._

_Dear Mitch,_

_Have you thought about it at all?_

_Dear Heather,_

_When I first got here, I didn't really think I had any other options but to wait out my time and go back to Jonah when I got out. Now . . ._

_Dear Mitch,_

_You know that whatever you decide . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I do know that, and it means a lot._

When the bus stopped just outside of the city limits to disgorge the single passenger with his duffle bag, there was only one other person in sight. The petite brunette sitting on the tailgate of the well weathered pickup truck smiled brightly and started to hop down before something seemed to occur to her. Instead, she slid to her feet slowly and waited for him to come to her.

The bus continued on its way, and the man shifted his bag to the other hand as he made his way in her direction.

"Hi," she offered her smile faltering a bit as if she were no longer quite sure of herself. He read her hesitancy and offered her a somewhat unsure smile of his own. They just looked at each other for a few seconds before he offered her his hand.

"Mitchell Cafferty," he told her as his smile shifted from unsure to teasing.

"Heather Lisinski," she replied with a small laugh. "It's nice to actually meet you."


	2. How Mary Never Reacted

Mary

There had been no greeting when he came home (she so enjoyed the fact that she could use the word home and have it apply to the both of them). That was the first thing that tipped her off to the fact that something (well, there were a lot of things that were wrong, but other than the usual world tumbling down around their ears situation) was wrong. He always kissed her first thing when he got back - whether they were in her apartment or down in the bar or even ran into each other out on the street. There was something about finally being out in the open that caused the two of them to relish the ability to express their affection without looking over their shoulders to check who might be watching whenever they saw each other - it was almost like being giddy.

There had been no kiss when he arrived today. There had not even been a hello, a smile, or an acknowledgement that she was even present. She studied his profile from across the room as he went through the motions of removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. She could not tell what to make of his mood. It was possible that his parents had given him a hard time. He always spent a lot of time fretting about what his dad thought about him. She hoped that Johnston Green hadn't tried to give him some sort of a lecture.

"Hey," she said drawing his attention to the fact that she was waiting on him to say something. He did not respond. He was standing still with his hands balanced over the top of his jacket against the back of the chair as he stared ahead of himself clearly not seeing anything in front of him. She wondered what it was that he was seeing. She wondered what it was that he would be telling her when he finally broke out of it. She wasn't going to stand there and start guessing - it would be silly when she was going to find out soon enough. Besides, whatever it was might be tragic or another complication for them to face or anything along those lines - it wouldn't matter. They would deal with it. She was sure that they could. They were together now - together in the openly together sense of the word. Everyone knew that they were a them, and there was no more hiding or waiting or watching from the background. And now that they were together, there was nothing that the two of them couldn't tackle as a team.

"Hey," he replied blinking in her direction as if he had just broken free of his internal monologue and noticed that she was, in fact, standing only a few feet away.

"What's wrong?" She asked moving closer and leaning up to give him a quick kiss before he answered. He got too broody sometimes; he needed to remember that she was here to help shoulder whatever it was.

He didn't speak for a few minutes. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before returning it to the back of the chair. He sort of sank against the bracing of his hands as if they were the only thing keeping him from giving in and letting his legs crumple under him. She ran a soothing hand up and down his back while she waited for him to find whatever words he was trying to find. He didn't look sad she decided - it was more as though something had rattled him.

"April's pregnant," he blurted out just when she thought he might actually be drifting to sleep standing in front of her.

"Oh," she replied. That was not what she expected. She understood that that wouldn't be news that Eric expected to hear, but was it really cause for him to look quite as thrown by the news as he did? After all, it would be a little hypocritical of him to be angry if April had gone looking for someone that made her happy. He had done the same. Really, after he got over the initial surprise of the unexpectedness of it (Mary had had no idea of such a thing herself, but April's activities hadn't been at the top of her list of things to pay attention to), he would see that this was a good thing.

He had found happiness with her; April had found happiness with someone else. His parents might still be a little miffed at the sort of under the table way that it had all come about (Mary couldn't really blame them for that; they were, after all, correct that there were better ways for them all to have gone about the whole thing), but they couldn't act like Eric was some . . . well, they couldn't justify acting toward Eric the way that they seemed to be.

None of which really explained how off Eric looked. He hadn't spoken again during any of the time that she had spent thinking things through, and he didn't look as if his tension level had ratcheted down any. There was obviously something else, but she sure didn't have any idea what it might be.

"Eric?" She asked carefully wondering if there was something other than April that he still needed to say.

"She didn't even tell me herself," he said in a tone that she couldn't quite place. If this were turning into some sort of male ego thing, she was going to . . .

"Dad was the one who told me," he added. "She said that she didn't want it to factor into my decision." He shook his head while Mary tried to make his words make sense within the context of the situation that she was still operating inside. "That's finally something that the two of us are on the same page about," he muttered. "A child doesn't fix anything. It's most definitely not a reason to stay together."

Mary's stomach dropped out, and her hand dropped from where it had still been resting between Eric's shoulder blades. She took a step back as she tried to wrap her head around the implications of his words.

"Wait," she told him still hoping that there was something, anything that she had missed in those sentences that was making her think something that was not what he really had been saying (couldn't possibly be what he was really saying). "Are you saying that April is pregnant with your baby?" She asked (her voice cracking a little under the strain as she mentally begged him to look at her like she was insane while he cleared up her misconception).

"Of course it's my baby," he was turning around and looking at her like she had said something insane, but he wasn't calling her out on a misconception. "Who else would it belong to?"

The crack echoed in the sudden stillness of the room before Eric began yelling.

"What was that?" He hollered at her (the words loud despite the muffling of his hands clutching at his face and the blood running through his fingers).

Her fist dropped back to her side - the sting in her knuckles barely registering over the sudden rage that was welling up in her directed at the man standing there looking at her like he was the injured party in this scenario.

"What was that?" She echoed. "What was that?" She demanded. "That was me punching you in the face, you cheating, lying . . .," she trailed off as the words she was using actually registered. Her voice gave way to a pained laugh that she was having difficulty trying to control. This might be what it was like to be hysterical was a thought that flashed across her head, but the unnatural laughter continued on unabated.

"You're a cheater," she repeated managing the words through the laughter. "You're a cheater, and I'm stupid." She continued as the laughter cut itself off just as quickly as it had originally started. "Why should I be anything special?" She asked more to herself than to him even though the words were spoken out loud.

"How many times, Eric?" She demanded in a voice that was deadly calm. "How many times did you spin me the story about how you and April were married in name only? How many times did you tell me that the two of you lived completely separate lives - that you barely saw each other? How many times did you actually go from my bed back to hers and vice versa? Or do you not even have a count because it wasn't anything out of the norm for you?"

He just stood there looking at her with shocked eyes as the blood continued to drip between the fingers clutching at his nose. She couldn't detect a trace of guilt or concern or any emotion of the type in his eyes. There was nothing there but shock that she had hit him and an obvious expression that told her that he had no idea why she was upset or what her ranting spiel was even about.

"Get out of my home," she declared lifting a shaking hand to point at the door. "And don't come back."


	3. How Heather Never Saw Roger

How Heather Never Saw Roger

"Is there anything you want before we get started," the woman asked her with the tired smile of someone who was still trying to be helpful even though they had had variations on the same conversation over and over again all day long.

"I'd really like to go home," Heather told her giving a small smile in answer to the woman's own expression.

"Isn't your home some sort of a war zone right now?" The woman lifted an eyebrow (Heather noticed that her nametag read Anne).

"I don't know," Heather admitted. "Nobody will tell me anything."

"Well, you can hardly consider yourself high up on the need to know chain when it comes to military operations, can you?" Anne told her sounding as if she might be getting a little testy. Heather could not really blame her for that. Complaints about a lack of information were probably what Anne spent most of her day listening to from the people who came through her station to be registered. It was not Anne's fault that she did not have more to tell them. The momentarily cross expression lifted from Anne's face as the tired smile returned. "How about we start with some water? Then, we'll get you all logged into the system."

Heather nodded her head, and Anne bustled out of her cubicle only to return a few seconds later with a bottle of water which she placed on the desk that rested between them. She, obviously, had not needed to travel very far to retrieve it. Heather spent the time while Anne was getting situated to do the math in her head. There were easily twelve cubicles (possibly fifteen as she could not tell for sure whether there was another row behind the last partition) like Anne's in the space. There were a steady stream of people being directed to one or another of them (and had been for the whole time that Heather had been waiting in the line outside which she was guessing had been about two hours). That was a lot of people going through (especially as she had heard one of the people with a walkie talkie keeping an eye on the line report in from "center seven."

The room in which she found herself sitting was one that she strongly suspected had once been the exercise room of the once upon a time hotel that she had been sent to for what the man who had escorted her referred to as "processing." The word left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Heather's stomach, but she supposed that that might have been because she was still feeling so out of sorts about everything that had happened in New Bern. She shuddered involuntarily. The people at the base where she woke had not been able to tell her anything about Nicole or Erin. They could only tell her that she had been found injured by a patrol group and brought in alone. She did not want to know what that meant, but she did.

"Spelling," Anne was saying across from her (and Heather got the distinct impression that she was giving her that prompt for the second time).

She dutifully rattled off the appropriate spelling for her last name as well as the answers to all the other questions that Anne had for her (age, place of residence, location of last driver's license renewal, etc.). There was not anything out of the ordinary about any of it, but there was still something about the click of the keys as Anne entered all of the answers into Heather's electronic file that failed to assist the uneasiness that she just could not seem to shake.

She would not have been able to voice a reason for it, and she most definitely would not be trying to voice her apprehension to anyone here in any case. They had really been nothing but nice to her from the moment she had woken. From the medics in the infirmary to the officers at the base, there was not a single person who had not tried to reassure her that she was safe now. Even Anne was trying her best to be pleasant and understanding when she had every reason to be tired and crabby.

Heather had just been unable to shake the sense of something being deeply wrong from the moment that she had seen the flag flying over the base as the soldiers began to move out to intercede in the coming bloodshed between New Bern and Jericho.

"You did say Jericho, Kansas, didn't you?" Anne was asking as she looked at her screen.

"Yes," Heather answered breaking away from her internal pondering of whether or not the fighting would have already started by the time they had gotten there.

"Well, you may not be able to go home yet," Anne told her with a smile that seemed to have been kicked up a notch in its intensity (genuine, Heather realized, rather than the kindly meant polite one that she had been giving her since she had sat down). "But, I may be able to give you a little piece of home."

Heather blinked at her in confusion.

"Tell me, dear; did you happen to know a Roger Hammond back in that little town of yours?"

(!) (!) (!)

It was not until the next morning that Heather found herself standing in front of what had once been (in the time before the city of Cheyenne had become the seat of the government with its turned to the side flag) the door to a college dorm room (the dorm was now housing for the refugees who were flooding the city).

When she had finally wrapped her head around the name that Anne had told her, she had somehow managed to sputter out (instead of merely saying that she did know Roger) that she was supposed to be the maid of honor at his wedding. Anne had not seemed to think that it was over sharing. She had clicked away happily at her keys and commented that she really enjoyed being able to help things work out so well. She had proceeded to inform Heather that there was a space available in the same housing unit to which Roger was assigned where she could be placed and had been handing Heather her post processing information by the time Heather tried to say anything else.

Her post processing information consisted of an ID, a housing assignment card, what Heather could only term a ration book, and a list of three addresses. Anne explained that her ID should be carried on her person at all times (and strongly suggested that she do the same with her ration book) and that the addresses were places that she should check in with the next day to see about the possibility of work. The term processed still evoked unpleasant connotations in Heather's head, but she could not argue the suitability of the word for what the workers at the center were doing.

Roger, Anne had told her, would be found one floor up from where she would be staying. She was, Anne had mentioned with a pretense of whispering, not strictly supposed to give out such information, but everyone knew how anxious people were to be connected with people that they were missing. Thus, those in her department tried to place people close to each other whenever some sort of a connection could be found.

"We've all been a little out of sorts," the woman had told her making Heather nearly choke on the water she had just taken a sip of before Anne had spoken. "Out of sorts" seemed a "little" inadequate in Heather's opinion. "These little touches help everyone understand that it's all getting better now," she finished.

Heather had been required to wait in another section of the hotel until someone was available to escort her and others who had been assigned to the same general vicinity to the places that all the workers in the building kept referring to as their new homes. Heather found the use of the term a little grating. She wanted to be going home, but she was, instead, being sent off to a repurposed dorm room that she would be sharing with a middle aged woman who had greeted her with nothing more than a "didn't figure that they would let me keep the place to myself for very long" before rolling over and going back to sleep (it had been a long day of waiting at processing, and Heather had been the last of her escort's charges to be dropped off only to spend another half hour listening to the housing manager go over the rules and regulations of the housing complex).

It had been pitch black outside by the time she had finally been offered a key and shown to the room that was hers. She could not really blame her roommate for a grumpy response to being woken, and she had done her best to spread out the sheet and blanket that had been a part of the bundle the housing manager had handed her over the bed she had been pointed to in the dark so as not to disturb her further. In truth, she had been too tired to do much of anything else, and the rest of the bundle found a place pushed underneath the bed to be examined later while she kicked off her shoes and curled up on the mattress to try to get some sleep.

Her last thought before she drifted off was that this was not home. This was just a place to sleep until they decided it was safe enough to lift the travel restrictions that had been placed on her part of Kansas.

Roger, however, was a piece of home. She could not, for the life of her, think of any reason for Roger to be here in Cheyenne. He should have been safe (or as safe as anyone in Jericho could be with New Bern looking to slice up the community like a Thanksgiving turkey) at home with Emily. She had been telling herself that from the moment she had been woken by her roommate stirring around and then getting ready at the first sight of dawn. The woman left without saying anything to her, and Heather waited impatiently for the sun to be truly up before she went marching up to knock on what was supposedly Roger's door.

She had been standing there for nearly five minutes (still in the t-shirt and scrub bottoms that the medics had dressed her in back at the base) trying to decide what she would say after Roger answered whenever she finally got around to knocking.

"Whoa," a voice greeted her as the decision was taken out of her hands when the door swung open to reveal a boy who looked to be in his late teens about to run her over where she stood. "Lost?" He asked her. "Dylan's actually down the other end of the hall. I've got to say though that you really shouldn't bother," his voice was one part teasing layered over top one part sincerely meant advice. "He's a lot more trouble than he's worth, and he's not so great about keeping those promises that he's always making."

"Umm . . .," Heather found herself saying. That was a complete departure from any conversation she had been plotting out in her head. "I was actually looking for Roger Hammond?" She tried realizing that she sounded a lot more like she was asking him a question than as if she was explaining her reason for hovering outside of his door.

"Seriously?" The teen asked her. "That's a first," he commented when (unsure of what else she should do) she nodded her head in reply. "Roger," he called over his shoulder into the room in a sing-song voice. "There's a girl here to see you."

"It's too early for your jokes, Jon," a voice (one she definitely recognized as Roger's) answered back sounding half asleep. She heard the sound of some shuffling before another figure appeared in the doorway. "Get to work before you get a citation for being late."

"School's out and I still have to worry about tardies," the boy muttered before making a hand gesture toward where Heather was still standing. "But, really, you have a visitor." Roger, for the first time, actually looked out into the hall.

"Heather?" He stammered sounding as if he half thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Roger," the teen chided clicking his tongue. "You've been holding out on me. You didn't tell me that you actually knew people." A quick glare from Roger caused him to stop talking.

"It really is you," Heather commented still trying to work her thoughts around to the point that they would not interfere with carrying out a coherent conversation. "I thought they must have made some sort of a mistake when they told me, but you're actually here." She spoke so quickly that she found herself taking a huge breath at the end of her sentence. "But I don't understand," she continued when her lungs were full again. "What happened? How did you get here? Where's Emily?"

A cloud seemed to pass over the man's face.

"Yeah, I'm definitely getting the this is a private conversation vibe here, so I'm just going to take my leave. Heather, was it?" He requested clarification but kept talking before either of the other people standing in the hallway had a chance to reply. "I hope I'll see you around." He took off down the hall at a jog (whether prompted by the sudden awkward atmosphere in the hall or by the fact that he was running late as Roger had earlier implied was something Heather did not make the effort to guess).

"You should come in," Roger told her. "I would say that it's great to see you, but people ending up here usually means that something has gone very, very wrong."

(!) (!) (!)

"You could come with me," she tried again. She did not really believe that this time would prove any more successful that the last four occasions on which she had tried to have the same conversation.

"You know that I can't," he told her sternly. "I'm banished, remember?"

"Things are different now," she kept trying. There was something about the thought of giving in on this without a fight that just did not set right.

"No, Heather, they are not. Nothing has changed the fact that I shot Anderson. Nothing is ever going to change that fact. I got kicked out, and they weren't wrong to do it. How are they supposed to keep order if they let someone who tried to use a hostage situation to force his will on the town have no repercussions?" He gave her a smile that she did not like to see. It was almost pitying. "There's no going back, Heather - not for me. If you think there is for you, then I'm happy for you that you're getting the chance."

"What about Emily?" She insisted.

"What about Emily?" He repeated and that pitying smile was firmly back in place. "The databases will go into town with J&amp;R. She'll be able to look for me if she wants to."

"What are you saying?" She questioned sounding wary of the answer she might be getting.

"That I would appreciate that you don't mention seeing me when you get back to Jericho. I know I don't have any basis of a right to ask that from you, but I'm still asking."

"I don't understand," she insisted.

"I'm gone," he told her with a hint of harshness seeping into his voice. "I'm gone from her world, and I can't come back. The last thing she needs is an upending of whatever she's put back together for herself or to feel like she's got some sort of an obligation to me when I'm never going to be back to where she is."

"But if she looks . . ."

"If she walks up to the J&amp;R station and puts in a people search request on me, then you can tell her anything you like." He smiled at her (a genuine one rather than the pitying facsimile this time). "Don't look so down, Heather. You've been a broken record since day one about how you just want to go home. You're getting your chance. We don't all get that you know. Cheer up. There's a couple dozen people in this building who will never see home again because that home got wiped out of existence. They're building lives here - a new home. I'm doing the same, and I've made my peace with that. Don't go getting all emotional on my behalf." He reached out to draw her into a hug as she sniffled a bit before he held her at arm's length and looked at her with a serious expression. "You be careful," he admonished her. "You saw what the safety assessment for the region said. Things may be calmer, but they aren't anywhere near back to good yet. There are people around who think they have got a reason to be mad at you. Don't do anything else to draw their attention."


	4. How Cornman Never Faced the Ants

This story tags back to my one shot "Stanley Richmond, Comic Book Icon." It will make sense more quickly if you have read that one, but I think you can puzzle it out either way. Someone asked to see more of Stanley in that role. This seemed like a good place to do that.

This piece comes under the heading of humor/parody.

**How Cornman Never Faced the Ants**

"Cornman? This is HQ. I'm going to need you to return to town immediately."

"What? I've almost got these guys! We've been after this road gang for weeks!"

"We've got a bigger problem - a way bigger problem on our hands. The road gang is going to have to wait."

"I'm seriously minutes away from shutting this thing down for good here, HQ. Can't whatever it is wait?"

"That would be a no. There is a reason that I said immediately."

"What kind of problem are we talking about?"

"This would be the kind that requires a really good exterminator."

"The giant irradiated ants followed Jake home, didn't they?"

"It looks that way."

"How many times have you told him to watch out for those?"

"His listening skills leave something to be desired. The sooner you get back here the better."

"I'm on my way."

Fifteen Minutes Later

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing, HQ?"

"I do have a visual on the area, Cornman."

"Have you noticed that there are not just a couple of these things? There's a whole line of them! I can't even see the end!"

"Well, that would be consistent with normal ant behavior. After all . . ."

"This is not the time for a science lesson!"

"Sorry."

"What's Electra Babe's ETA?"

"She's not on her way."

"Why not? Where is she?"

"She's got detention duty this afternoon."

"Are you kidding me?"

"There's a rotation."

"I'm thinking the miles long line of giant ants headed for town are probably a more pressing issue than some kids who got too many late slips this week. Can't she get here?"

"Not without compromising her identity."

"The entire town already knows her identity, Heather! I cannot handle this on my own. Get me some back up out here!"

"I'm on it."

"I'll start slinging some silk - see if I can slow them down."

Two Hours Later

"That's really just disgusting."

"Crisped insects are considered a perfectly normal food source in some cultures."

"Um . . . ew."

"You can't be suggesting that we . . ."

"Well, she does have a point. I mean, we can't just leave them out here, can we?"

"Weren't you the one who just said 'ew' like three seconds ago?"

"That was a knee jerk reaction."

"It was the right knee jerk reaction. They are ants in case you didn't notice that during the slow but steady march toward the doom of the town that we just witnessed."

"That we just stopped."

"That was a nice display of teamwork by the way."

"Thanks, HQ. They are made of meat, you know that right?"

"I'm going to repeat your earlier assessment of the situation . . . um . . . ew."

"Well, they are. Besides, if you stop to think about it, is it really that much different from reopening the Pizza Garden?"

"I can't even begin to tell you how much it bothers me that I can't really argue that point. Maybe we could trade them to New Bern for some windmills?"

"Guys!"

"What's up, HQ?"

"As intriguing as this little discussion of yours is, these were irradiated ants - don't you think that could be problematic?"

"This was your idea in the first place."

"All I did was make a comment about how some people eat bugs. I did not suggest that we take up the practice."

"Stanley got irradiated in that rain."

"Well, yeah, but what does that have to do with . . ."

"Oh, I see where you're going with that. He got super powers."

"They are powers; the super part might be up for debate."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying that it worked out okay for him."

"I'm not sure that Stanley's reaction to radiation should be used as a baseline."

"I can hear everything the two of you are saying over the com. Did you forget that?"

One Week Later

"Why are you loading cans of gas into the car, Jake?"

"Oh, hey Cornman, I just realized that it's been a while since we sent anyone out to gather information. I thought I would make a run and see how things seem to be going out there."

"No!"

"Wow, there's no need to be so loud, HQ. You're going to blow out the earpiece."

"Just tell him no!"

"Um . . . do you really think that's such a good idea, Jake?"

"Someone's got to do it. Why not me?

"Yeah, about that. Here's the thing, Jake. Any time you get any distance away from Jericho, something always follows you home."

"It does not."

"Do you not remember that invading army from New Bern?"

"That was not my fault. They were coming anyway."

"There have been other . . . incidents."

"Like what?"

"Those fighter planes? That Maggie woman from the fake marines? That duck that thought you were its mother? That, by the way, was completely hilarious. That St. Bernard puppy that peed all over your mother's carpets? Ravenwood?"

"Okay, okay. I get your point, but . . ."

"Giant. Irradiated. Ants."

"Oh, come on - what are the odds of something like that happening again?"

"Giant. Irradiated. Ants."

"I'm just going to unload the car."

"Good call."

"I'll see you at Bailey's later?"

"I'll be there. HQ?"

"Yes?"

"The crisis has been averted."

"Way to save the day."

"I have my moments."


	5. How Someone Never Asked a Question

AN: This is for Martha because I know how much this scene bothers her. Here is your moment to challenge the lack of reality. If it makes you feel better, you can let it be your head cannon that they did something appropriate and just did not bother to show it on the screen. The phrase "like silage sludge" is credited to her in an agitated moment. I did not include her insistence that field corn is not yummy because let's be honest . . . it is not like they have a lot of options (and it is edible). If you want to cover your eyes and pretend that what Stanley had was actually acres and acres of sweet corn, then you go ahead and do that. :)

_How Someone Never Asked a Question_

"Where is all of this corn going?" She asked wiping her hand across her forehead to remove the sweat that was threatening to drip down into her eyes.

"Into the tubs," the man across from her answered with a glance between her and the one at her feet as if the answer to her question should have been obvious.

She rolled her eyes in response as she rolled her shoulders before reaching out for another ear. "I meant after we get it picked," she clarified.

"I guess they are taking the tubs into one of the barns or something," he answered shrugging his shoulders as he slid his mostly empty container a little further down the row with his foot.

"And then?" She requested sounding as if she was teetering on the edge of impatience.

"And then what?" He responded. She stared at him blankly for a moment before the expression on her face morphed into one of concern.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"It can't stay like that," she announced. "What are they going to do with it after we get it picked?"

"These have lids," he responded kicking the container a little further as he spoke. "That should keep the rodents out of it." The look on her face was out and out disbelief.

"It will go bad," she said slowly as if speaking to someone that had difficulty understanding the language. "It can't just stay in those tubs."

"Really?" He asked.

"How do you not know that?" She demanded.

"Never done much with corn before," he replied. "Mine comes in cans." She shook her head as if to clear it from some disturbing thoughts and looked over in the direction of the filled tubs that did not seem to be moving anywhere at the moment.

"Have you heard anyone say anything about other work day projects?" She asked.

"Nope," he replied, "they just said to show up today because the corn needed picking. I'm sure that it will be okay. If you say that it can't stay in the tubs . . .," he began.

"It can't!" She insisted (interrupting his sentence). "It'll be . . . like silage sludge." He looked at her blankly, and she sighed. "Like you could maybe feed it to pigs, but you aren't going to get any other use out of it." Seeing that he did not seem to be following what it was that she was attempting to explain, she tried again. "It will be rotten if you leave it in those. It can't just stay like that. People won't be able to eat it."

"Well, then I'm sure that they have some sort of a plan," he attempted to reassure her gesturing between her container and his to indicate that she was starting to fall behind. She started moving again but kept glancing back toward the people at the edge of the field with a narrow eyed, suspicious look.

"I would certainly hope so," she muttered. She did not look overly reassured. She appeared to be making some sort of calculations in her head, but she did not speak as the two of them continued to make their way down the rows filling the tubs as they went. Every once in a while, she muttered something under her breath. It was never loud enough for him to discern what it was that she was saying, but he was not sorry to have had the conversation come to an end.

He certainly did not know enough about corn to know whether or not she was right in her assertions about proper storage, but he supposed that it made sense that things would eventually go bad if left to their own devices. He had had plenty of things in the back of his fridge over the years to demonstrate that concept for him. He, unlike her apparently, was not seeing any cause for concern over the situation. After all, they had gone to all of the trouble of organizing this town wide group picking project. Surely, they knew what they were doing enough to have planned for the next step of the process. Someone had to have a plan. Someone had to know what it was that they were doing. They would not have the town do all of this work to preserve what they had all been told was a vital resource and then not . . . you know . . . actually preserve it. There was nothing to worry about. He was not the one in charge, but he had every confidence that whoever it was who was actually in charge knew what it was that they were doing.

She was not seeing anything that was making her feel any better. Filled tubs went in the back of trucks and on trailers. She had yet to spot anyone doing anything else or making any moves toward doing anything else with the piles and piles of corn that were being brought out of the fields. She knew that just because she was not seeing any evidence of the next step of the process did not mean that it was not there, but she was not about to accept that on faith. She had some questions to be asking. She just needed to decide which of the people in the field to single out for the start of her inquiries.


	6. How Jonah Never Took an Interest

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

Jonah Prowse does not slink. Other people might suggest otherwise; other people liked to use words with negative connotations when they talked about him. It made them feel superior to look down on him and pretend that their predictable little lives with their narrow little decisions gave them some sort of a right to pass judgment on how he did things. They stuck their noses in the air and behaved as if they didn't make their own little forays into the grey areas of life when it happened to suit them. He just played on a bigger scale. He figured that they were jealous that they didn't have the nerve in the first place or the wherewithall to live with the consequences if things happened to go south. He might make risky decisions. He might color outside the lines, but he had never once whined or complained that things were somehow unfair when he stretched his hand out a little too far and got it smacked back in response. He had always done his time quietly. If nothing else, then it had always provided a productive amount of free time in which to plan. He didn't always take the time to do planning when he was in the middle of the moment.

He was a make the choices as they come and roll with the punches kind of a guy, and it had always served him well enough. Other people would disagree. Other people would see time served and contracts severed and think that those were all mistakes that had cost him. They weren't. They were risks that he had taken. Sometimes, that worked in your favor. Sometimes, it didn't. The trick was to know that you had to keep risking. The trick was to always remember that things could go either way. That way you were never surprised. You had to be flexible in life.

That was the problem with most people - they just weren't willing to be flexible. They saw something and decided on a way to get there and never paid attention to what other ways there might be. There was always another way. That was one lesson in life that he had learned good and well. You couldn't always go straight at something. You had to be willing to go around or sneak up from behind. Sometimes, you even had to go under a lot of other things to get to where it was that you wanted to be going.

He hadn't understood that when he was younger, and it had cost him one of the few things in life that he ever regretted risking. When his wife gave him the it or me speech, he had taken her at her word. She was taking a risk, and he knew how to respect that. He was never a deadbeat (no matter what the people with too much time on their hands in that town might have whispered behind his children's backs). He always contributed. He got them their first cars. He threatened to shoot Emily's high school boyfriend. He taught Chris how to change oil.

He was around even when he wasn't officially around. It hadn't been enough to keep Emily on his side when Chris died. Chris was gone. Their mother was gone. Emily was what he had left. He might not always understand the choices that she was making. She might not always understand his. They might not even get along all that well (in his experience, the people that loved each other best never did). She was still his girl. He might have had his issues with the Mitchell situation and the resulting fallout, but he wasn't really gone. He couldn't really go - not when he had to be close enough to step in if his daughter needed him. Besides, he had skills that were in high demand these days. He had a decent position from which to barter.

He kept to his word about staying out of town, but he never really went away. He was close enough to hear that there was some sort of a commotion going on over the refugee situation. He kept his information wheels well-oiled and knew that his daughter's fiancé was mixed up in it somehow. He had a spotter reporting in to him that the man was on his way out of town before half the people actually in town likely knew what was happening. He was not slinking around on the outskirts. He was being observant and paying attention to his daughter's interests.

He had to give the banker credit; he looked like he knew more about how to handle himself out on the road than he would have expected. He had obviously spent some time in some shady places since the bombs fell. Jonah could work with that. He might be looking out for his daughter's interests, but there was no room out here for someone who couldn't do something to contribute. He couldn't remember the guy's name, but he had known who he was. That was interesting. He wouldn't have expected Emily to go flipping through any family photo albums.

It turned out that his name was Roger. It just happened that he knew the newly formed trade routes. He knew where the information centers were forming. He knew which places were setting up a form of commerce and which ones were just going through the motions. He had a place for someone who knew those things. He had a place for someone who was good at negotiating with people. He had a place for someone who knew what to watch for to know when it was time to get yourself gone. He had a place for Roger, and Roger didn't have any place else to go. It turned out that Roger was a guy who knew how to be flexible.

He might have not really understood the step up fiancé thing when he had first heard. He might have had his thoughts about Emily and her mother and Jake and himself, but he learned pretty quickly that Roger definitely understood Emily.

"She never really forgives you, does she?" The man asked him one day as he rode shotgun (a literal description now) while Jonah drove.

"For what?" He asked him.

"Not being there when she wants you to be," Roger replied staring out the window and scanning the roadside for possible threats.

"No," Jonah answered him. "I don't think she knows how."

The other man didn't say anything else; he just kept up his window vigil.

Roger knew how to be flexible. He knew how to get by when he had few options, and Jonah was no longer alone off on the sidelines looking after Emily.


	7. How We Never Saw Eric

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

The baby is crying. He can hear her. He struggles up out from under blankets that seem far too heavy - as if they are trying to hold him down and keep him from getting to his little girl. He fights his way out from underneath them and hurries to the hall where he pauses and struggles to determine in which direction he needs to go. He can still hear her, but he cannot seem to find from where the crying is coming. He chooses the obvious path. He tries the nursery first, but the nursery is empty. The crib holds only a blanket, and the rocking chair is slowly rocking itself back and forth as if it has been recently vacated. He does not know where to look next. He does not know where the baby has gone. The baby cannot have gone anywhere by herself, so what he really does not know is where it is that they have gone. April must have moved her, but he does not know where. He cannot pinpoint the source of the sound. It feels like it is coming from all directions at once leaving him feeling helpless in the center of the noise that he wants to stop. He wants to cuddle her close and reassure her that her daddy is with her. He wants to tell her that everything will be alright.

Tracy keeps crying, but the sound changes. There is a hitch to it as if she is starting to give up on trying to get his attention. He hates the thought that his little girl is starting to believe that he will not be coming for her. He starts rushing through the house throwing open doors and looking under things as if they are playing some warped version of hide and seek. He needs to find the baby. Tracy needs him, and if the baby is crying the way that she is, then April must need him as well. Something has happened. Something is wrong. He needs to find them both.

He moves more quickly, but he never seems to get any closer to from where the sound is coming. The house has disappeared from around him, but he does not notice that. The open white space in which he is standing is glaringly empty until it is not. The sound of Tracy crying is abruptly silenced as splashes of red appear all around him. He realizes that the red is blood at the same time that he sees that he has finally found them. April is holding a now silent bundle of blankets close to her chest as the red stains covering the both of them seem to grow ever larger. April does not say anything. She just looks at him with a desperate, pleading expression before she collapses in a heap on the ground. He is not close enough to catch them when they fall. He cannot reach out his arms to stop them from hitting the ground. He cannot make his legs move to get him closer. He cannot reach them. He cannot touch them. He cannot help them. He has failed.

There is no more crying. His baby is still. April still has that desperate, pleading expression frozen across her features and in her eyes which have not closed. That is all he can see as the sea of red continues to spread until it covers the both of them and hides them from his gaze. When the paralysis that had overtaken him finally releases his body and allows him movement, it is too late for him to do anything other than sink to his knees and allow the sobs to overtake him. The red has reached him, and his hands are covered in it despite the fact that he cannot seem to reach out and touch the place where his family was lost to his view. He stares at the stains and knows instinctively that there is nothing that he will ever be able to do that will make his hands come clean. He is marked. His failure is written there in Tracy's blood and April's blood for everyone to see. He did not get to them in time. He was not there when they needed him. He does not know why he could not find them. He does not know what it was that kept him from getting to them or touching them. He only knows that it happened. He only knows that they are gone.

He sits up with a start - breathing heavily and surrounded by darkness. There is no white room. There is no pool of blood. He is not even in his bedroom back in Jericho. That bedroom is gone - lost to a fire what feels like several lifetimes ago. There was never any nursery in that house. There was never a nursery for Tracy in any house. He never got that far. April never got that far. They never got that far. They never got to a lot of things. For April and Tracy, it is too late to get to a lot of things that were supposed to happen later. He will never get to rock his baby girl. April was so sure that the baby was going to be a girl. He never got to ask her why. He never tried to ask her why. They were not exactly on question asking terms. They were barely on speaking terms. April did not trust him. He cannot fault her for that. He never got the chance to prove to her that she could trust him to be a dad. He does not know if it would have made a difference. He does not know how much additional stress played a part in what happened. He does not know that anything would have been different if he would have stayed around and been involved.

He can never know those things - that does not change the guilt that attacks him when he sleeps. It does not change the nightmares. It does not mitigate the overwhelming sense of failure that haunts him in the nights and chases him through his days. He goes through the motions in New Bern. He exchanges the expected comments on the work in front of him during his days at the plant. Everything filters through a haze of loss. He thinks it is worse because there is a part of him that tells him that he should not get to claim grief for a loss when he walked away before the loss occurred. His head does not make sense even to himself. He does not know what he is thinking. He only knows how he feels. He only knows that he is exhausted but that there is no point in trying to go back to a sleep that will be anything but restful.

He only registers working and worried glances from Stanley. He sometimes finds himself eating and belatedly realizes that Stanley or Heather have pushed something into his hands. He feels empty, and he knows that the one thing that could fill up that gaping hole that has appeared inside of him is something that he cannot get back.


	8. How Dale Never Confessed

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

"I killed Mitchell Cafferty."

He lets the words hang in the air between them. He has thought about saying them so many times to so many different people. He has imagined them as a confessional whisper and an angry announcement both. He never pictured the matter of fact way that the words have just fallen out of his mouth. There was no emotion attached to them. There was only a blank statement of fact. She was never the one he had imagined saying them to either. He did not even know that he intended to do it until he was sitting there and the words were making themselves known. It was most definitely not something that he had planned. Now, though, he can't really remember thinking about doing this any other way. He said the words the proper way; he said them to the correct person. He does not know why he did not think of it before.

There is no denouncement or denial in the aftermath of his admission. He takes that as permission to continue. He could have expected as much. She has always been a good listener. In another time and place (in another lifetime), that could have been considered ironic. From his perspective, that has always been a part of who she is. He has never known anything different. It never occurred to him that there was anything different to think about it. He needs her to just listen now. He did not plan this, and he is not quite sure what he should say next - he's just grateful that he has this chance. He has been holding on to this knowledge of what it is that he has done for quite some time, and he thinks that there is something about being the solitary bearer of that sort of a secret that takes a toll on you. He knows that when he is feeling overwhelmed by the pressures of trying to keep the store going that talking it out with Skylar makes it all easier. This isn't the same thing, but he figures it is worth the shot. It isn't, however, Skylar with whom he is sharing this particular burden. This isn't for her. He has chosen a different confidant, and he knows that whether this changes the way that he feels about what he has done or not, that his secret is safe with her. She has been his friend for a very long time, and he knows that she is every bit as loyal as she is a good listener. He hasn't been the greatest friend for a while now, but he figures that she will forgive him for that.

He lets the words spill out. He doesn't rush them; he takes his time. She doesn't interrupt. The two of them always did have more patience for each other than they did for the rest of the world in general. It has been that way ever since they were children before they were even old enough to understand all the ins and outs and whys and wherefores. They had just instinctively known that they were both outsiders in their own ways.

"I'm not sorry," he tells her half expecting a semi reproachful look that never comes. "He killed Gracie. I know he did, and he was going to get away with it. Either people didn't care or they couldn't do anything, so I handled it. I shot him, and he died. And I'm not sorry. But maybe," he admits, "I'm a little sorry that I'm not sorry. It shouldn't be easy, right? Sometimes, I wonder if the fact that it was easy means that I'm like him somehow. I don't want that, but I can't just let the bad guys win. The bad guys aren't supposed to win. You get that. I know you do. I know you understand why we can't just let things play out. That's why you're here."

He sighs and tugs at his hair as he collects his thoughts.

"No one has ever asked any questions. I don't even know if anyone ever found the body. Maybe the people who did just didn't care. It's not like anyone was waiting up nights worrying about whether or not he came home. It's just weird, you know? To know that I did this and that no one will ever bother to care enough to try to find out that I did. It feels wrong. More wrong than actually shooting him did in the first place. It just . . . it just shouldn't have been easy. That's the part that bothers me. Things like that should never be easy."

He rests his arms against his knees and allows his head to settle against them. He waits, and he listens. There is no one else around to bother them, and he lets himself soak up the moment. He doesn't feel better exactly, but he does feel different - like some of his thoughts have shifted around a little and found a more comfortable place to rest inside of his head. It's nice, and he is once again sure that this was the right time to admit what he has done and that she was the obvious person to tell. He actually feels a little bit silly knowing how long it took him to figure out that this was the way.

He pushes himself up from the ground and dusts his jeans off with his hands. He needs to go. There are runs to organize. There is a store to manage. There is craziness of all kinds to be found inside their apparently rebellious little piece of the world. Skylar will be wondering where he is. He has to get back, but he may come again. He has other things that he could tell her - happier things, more interesting things, things that aren't closely held secrets. He can do that. He should do that.

He resolves to make time for that as he walks away from Bonnie Richmond's grave.


	9. How Heather Never Went to Blackjack

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

It is early when she wakes. Her definition of early has changed drastically in the months since the bombs went off, but it is early even by her new definition when she becomes conscious. She had intended to be up extra early - the Mayor . . . Mr. Green (she has nearly as much trouble remembering that as Dale does) had said that they should leave as close to dawn as possible in order to take the route as safely as possible. She has no intention of being the reason that they are late to leave. She knows that Jake is less than pleased with her inclusion on this trip, and she is not about to give him any more reasons to object or resent her going.

She is solidly certain of the necessity of her inclusion. She is not about to let a man with a wife and kids to worry over make the trip when she can do it without anyone sitting around all day worrying over her safety. Besides, Mr. Carmichael has other work responsibilities in the course of the day, and her class has been suspended for the rest of the winter. There are just too many things that the children's families need them to do at home, and they don't have any way to heat the school even if they did try to continue holding sessions.

This trip isn't just for the town either. She wants to do something. This is something that she can do (although she finds it hard to believe that there is no one else in town who has ever done any hobby looking into these sorts of things). She feels like she is spinning her wheels in a lot of ways, but this is something concrete. She has never been good at sitting still. Her hands need an occupation, and she can only take apart pieces of Charlotte and put them back together again so many times before it has ceased to be anything she can even convince herself might be a constructive activity.

Her first thought when she registers that she is awake is that maybe she woke so suddenly because she is late. She realizes an instant later that it is still so pitch black that she cannot even read the little wind up travel alarm clock that is ticking away beside her bed. Then, she realizes that she is awake because her stomach hurts - badly. She is throwing herself in the general direction of her trash can about three seconds later. Her hands barely make contact with the outside edges to guide her head forward before she is retching. It is unpleasant (as throwing up always is), and she suffers in silence for several rounds of retching and gasping moments of attempting to catch her breath before she rocks back on her heels.

She cannot be sick today. She can't. She has to make this trip. She was so insistent and pushy about it that there is no way that she can back out (she is still desperate to go). Nothing has changed. She needs to go for all of the reasons that she voiced (and all of the ones that she kept to herself). She tells herself that she's not really sick. She tells herself that it must have been something that she had eaten (all of their diets are a little bit questionable these days). That reassurance to self only lasts as long as it takes for the next wave to hit her. She switches her hopes to concentrating on willing whatever virus she has picked up to move through her system quickly. It doesn't work.

She doesn't think that she has ever missed her phone more than she does as she stops on the side of the road as yet another wave of nausea brings her to her knees. She is just happy that she had the presence of mind to haul the mini trash can with her on her trip. She is sure that she looks completely ridiculous, but she is nothing if not practical. Hauling the trash can is gross, but it is better than having to explain to someone why she is throwing up in their yard. She isn't getting better. It's hitting her every half hour like clockwork, and all of her hopes of being able to pretend that she is fine and make the car trip anyway have been shattered. She wants to cry, and it is only slightly because of how awful the constant throwing up and only partial recovery periods are making her feel. She feels useless in a way that seems insurmountable in her current weakened state. She wants to help. She needs to help. She needs something to change in the only functioning one day at a time place that they have all been dropped into (she needs a break from the pitying glances from the gaggle of older women in the town who hush quickly when she approaches and whisper the words "Bailey's" and "dancing" and "kiss" after she has continued on her way). She needs this trip. She isn't going to get it and that just makes her feel worse.

She thinks that she might be running a fever, but she isn't sure whether the headache is from that or because of the pressure of trying to keep the tears inside. She is only aware enough to keep walking and to be happy that it is so early and so dark that there is no one around to notice her stumbling progress. She misses her phone and the ability to call in sick as it were, but there is a part of her that thinks it is better that she has to do this in person. There is a part of her that feels like she needs them to see (needs him to see) that she isn't making up an excuse because of the potential awkwardness (that is still there no matter what she had said in that conversation beside the car) or that she has gotten scared and is trying to get out of going. She needs him to know that she really does have a reason. She isn't even sure why; she just knows that she feels so miserable and out of it that she isn't going to try to think too hard about anything. She's going on impulse, so she is going to Jake to explain that she isn't coming and to get rid of the weight of the books and notebooks in the backpack that she is wearing in a final attempt to help.

She doesn't make it beyond the edge of the yard before the front door is opening and Jake is asking her something that she was too focused on walking to catch. She finds her mind flickering through some random thoughts about whether or not the man ever sleeps and why his eyes always look so dark. Then, there is a rushing sound in her ears as she tries (and fails) to focus on what it is that he is saying. She feels lightheaded and has the strangest compulsion to giggle at the thought that this is not the type of lightheaded that she usually associates with Jake. She thinks she says something about books in the backpack as she sets down her trash can and tries to shrug the straps off of her shoulders because she wants to make sure that he knows that he is supposed to take the notes and diagrams that she brought. She feels really strange though, and she isn't sure which words make it out and which do not. She feels like she is falling, and her last partially coherent thought is that she is happy that she isn't throwing up again.


	10. How Mary Never Reacted (Part 2)

AN: This one ties to "How Mary Never Reacted."

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

She could have thrown his things from her window and left them scattered in the street for him to find, but she was not inclined to indulge in the spectacle. She had drawn enough attention to herself in this town already. She hated that. She had lived here her entire life, and she knew how the lines of gossip worked. She was going to be reduced to the woman who had broken up the mayor's son's marriage. Her entire life was going to be eclipsed by that label and not even the end of the world as they knew it would be able to do much to deflect that.

The worst part was that she had no one she could blame but herself. She could see now that there were things about which Eric had obviously lied to her, but she could not claim that she had ever not known that he was married. She had known. The words are echoing in her head as some sort of tune stuck on repeat in the jukebox of her mind. She had known that he was a cheater. She had known that he must be lying at least to April and likely to other people as well about the time that he had been spending with her. What had ever made her believe that she was somehow immune to being the one lied to or cheated?

All she could see when she closed her eyes was the childhood memory of the expression on her father's face the day they had come home to find her mother's suitcases gone and a note on the table. How many times in her teenage years had she found her thoughts drifting to the woman who had left them (left her) behind and been able to give her no better label than coward to sum up her opinion of the actions of the woman who could not even be bothered to look them in the eyes to tell them that she was leaving them for something she deemed better?

Eric had not even bothered to leave. He had kept them both, apparently, in some bizarre keeping his options open scenario that she did not really want to think about too deeply. She had justified that somehow. She had made so many excuses. She had offered so many reasons to herself. She had avoided thinking about things so many times because she didn't want to have to think through what was truly happening.

She didn't want to imagine what her father would say to her if he was still here. She didn't want to picture the disappointment that he wouldn't have quite been able to prevent showing in his eyes no matter how comforting he might try to be. She had gotten herself into this; she would get herself out of it as best as she could. She had displayed some incredibly poor decision making skills; she was not going to double down on them by continuing to make excuses for either herself or him.

April was pregnant.

There was no denying that she had allowed herself to be had by a man that spun her tales while still with his wife. It ended now, but there was no reason for her to make a scene out of it. There would be enough talk for all of them to weather already. She was not going to add to it. There would be no tossing of items out of windows. She would pack his things back into the duffle bag that he had carried to her doorstep when he had shown up and announced that everything was a done deal - their secret was out and their life together was starting in earnest.

It struck her as she reloaded the bag with odds and ends that there wasn't much to pack. If she was still making excuses, then she would tell herself that he had been in a hurry or that there were more important things going on in town and he hadn't had a chance to really, truly move in with her. Without her automatic excuse response filter engaged, all she could think was that he was still keeping his options open by keeping his stuff spread out in multiple places. She needed to get her head on straight, and she thought, as she noticed that the extra key to her place was still in the pocket of the pair of pants that she was folding, she was going to get time to do that without him around to muddle her.

He pats down his pockets, but he finds nothing. He was sure that the key had been in his jacket, but he has even felt around for holes in the lining and found nothing. He isn't even sure why the door is locked. Mary never keeps the door locked. It is a bad habit that he has tried to get her to break, but she always tells him that it is too much trouble to remember to throw the bolt. Besides, she always says, if anyone was going to be wandering inside, then they would be going for the booze in the bar and not the efficiency apartment at the top of the stairs.

He knows that she was angry before. There is plenty of swelling going on on his face to show that, but he figures that he has given her plenty of time to cool off by now. It was surprising news. He knows that he was thrown by the announcement that April is pregnant, but he doesn't believe for one second any of the things that Mary said to him in the initial shock of the moment. He and Mary have had plenty of little spats before - about secret keeping, about timing, and about the whole situation. Everything is out in the open now, though, so this one should blow over quickly. He's given her the majority of a day to get it out of her system. He's sure that she is sorry about the way that she blew up at him. The two of them need to sit down and discuss how best to handle the situation they are now facing. He's sure that she'll be ready to listen to how he plans to handle things once they've gone through the making up motions.

The key is nowhere to be found. He must have dropped it somewhere, or he never put it into his pocket before he left the apartment. He'll have to look around for it, but he isn't too worried. It's not like it has a label on it telling people where they can use it. And, it's not like Mary makes a habit of locking the door. He hopes she hasn't fallen asleep because then it is going to take a lot of time and a lot of noise to get her to hear him and let him in - she's a really sound sleeper. He is pretty sure that she will be awake though - they had a fight. She'll be sitting there waiting for him to come back the way that she always does. She'll be sorry about the way that she lost her temper. She'll apologize for lashing out in her shock, and he'll say something about wishing he could have found a gentler way to break it to her. Then, they'll make up; it's their pattern. It works for them, and he, quite frankly, could use a little coddling. His family is being a bit unreasonable in his opinion. He runs his hands over his pockets one last time; it's no use.

He knocks a little harder at the door than he did the first time. He'll keep knocking for a long time; there won't be any answer.


End file.
